Camp and Circumstance
Jordan Mackay goes to Camp Cowboy.
(Page 2 of 8)
Pomp
The training camp ball got launched with an “official ceremony” that turned out to be more of a squib kick. The police cordoned off about two or three blocks of Austin’s Sixth Street, the famous strip of bars and clubs that would hours later become its usual roiling parade of strutting cowgirls, Jagermeister saturated sophomores, and imperturbable cover bands. But this was 4:30 in the afternoon on a Friday and something pretty spectacular would be required to bring a large crowd away from their week-ending happy hours and out to the smoldering asphalt of downtown Austin.
A makeshift stage had been constructed at one intersection and surrounded with chain-link fence. Large speakers were blaring contemporary pop music that was only broken intermittently by the enthused exhortations of an embarrassingly squeaky voiced dj who, despite his sunglasses and resident hipness, still managed to sound like an annoying teenager.
I’m not sure what my expectations were for this ceremony, but whatever they were, they were fulfilled in a surreal, if not downright silly, way. Things got underway when dark Chevy Blazers began to pull up behind the fencing and, though I couldn’t really see much, the buzz percolating through the crowd indicated that some of the players had arrived. The music continued pumping until the dj finally pranced up to the stage and chirped that before the athletes were trotted out, we could enjoy the precision dancing of the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders.
Cheerleader
Instantly they took the stage, a six-woman phalanx from the most famous cheerleading squad and assumed a formation, then waited for the music to begin. Their outfits were appropriately skimpy, more revealing than I’d expected having only seen them on television. As they danced through a lengthy and spirited routine to hoots and cheers from the crowd, I was most impressed by the magical durability of their smiles. Seemingly surgically attached to their faces, not one smile wavered during the course of an aerobically challenging routine performed in blistering ninety-five degree heat. It was a routine that ended not just with an energetically elastic series of precision high kicks but with the women taking the last kick, legs high over head, and lurching down to the stage like a pair of open scissors and sounding a deafeningly percussive thud. With that finale the routine was over and, if I may speak for the rest of the audience, the resounding thud was one we’ll never forget.
In fact, after the thud it was all pretty anticlimactic. The castrato dj pranced back up to the stage and (after a few ga-ga’s in the direction of the cheerleaders) in his bold falsetto presented the players, coaches, and politicians. In person, Troy Aikman is impressively the Platonic ideal of a quarterback: tall, blond hair, proud bearing, sunglasses, barrel chest. Bill Bates, the freewheeling veteran, was also there, smiling broadly, as was David Lafleur, a rookie and the first round draft pick. Representing the community was a suit from the Austin Chamber of Commerce, newly elected mayor Kirk Watson, and Gonzalo Barrientos, state senator, dressed casually in new jeans and a white shirt. Watson presented the key to the city (an actual key, gold-colored and about six inches long) to Cowboys owner Jerry Jones and coach Barry Switzer and pronounced them honorary Austinites. Switzer is the former head football coach of the University of Texas’ arch-rival Oklahoma. This irony was not lost on the crowd and prompted shouts of “Hook ‘em Horns, Barry!”, “You suck!”, and “Hi, Troy.”
After the requisite cliches about giving it all they’ve got, playing hard every day, and hoping to have a good season, it all came swiftly to a close. Players were whisked away and music returned to crushing volume as though none of this had ever really happened. But as the dignitaries left the stage, Jerry Jones did manage to express some heartfelt gratitude to Miller Brewing Co. for sponsoring the event and football in general. “Y’all don’t forget Miller Beer,” he cried. As though any true fan of the pigskin ever could.
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